Forget Me Not
by Slinky-and-the-BloodyWands
Summary: Snape is innocent. Thanks to a mystic blue flower, Hermione remembers the truth. Now that secret is hers to keep and Severus hers to save. Post HBP, during DH. HG/SS, Implied Snape/Lily.
1. Prologue

**Summary: Snape is innocent. Thanks to a mystic blue flower, Hermione remembers the truth. Now that secret is hers to keep and Severus hers to save. Post HBP, HG/SS.**

**Rated: T or PG-13 for language, violence, and some sexual references.** **Rating may go up, but it won't be because of anything graphic—or, at least, nothing planned at the moment.**

**Setting: The Prologue takes place directly after Christmas holidays during HBP. In HBP the students were to floo back to school. Hermione told HP, RW, and GW that she had been there for a few hours, visiting Hagrid, but this is how she arrived at Hogwarts.**

_**Forget-Me-Not**_

**Prologue **

Hermione rolled out of the fire place, sneezing as a cloud of ash filled the air. She wiped off her face quickly, somewhat bitter by the fact that she had not yet mastered a decent landing in her past attempts to floo. Holding to the closest chair for balance, the young witch stood to her feet, eyes slowly widening as she recognized her surroundings. She had expected she might end up in one of the classrooms or a professor's quarters, but she hadn't thought that she'd land in Dumbledore's office. If she had, she might have been a bit more graceful in cleaning her face with the neckline of her sweater.

"Ah, Miss Granger, do take a seat," welcomed a cheerful voice.

Hermione turned, almost tripping over her own feet. "Headmaster? I must have been taken to the wrong room."

"Oh, dear, you're exactly where you should be," Dumbledore replied from behind his desk. He propped his hands before him, fingers held end to end against their opposites. "I must ask you to hurry along. We haven't time for proper greetings or formalities. I have something very important to discuss with you."

With a nod, the witch stepped forward, sitting down across from the old wizard. "Sir, does this have anything to do with Harry?"

Dumbledore stared at her a moment, as if pondering the question. "I suppose, in the long run it does. However, for the moment, I will answer 'no'. This meeting concerns you and Professor Snape."

Hermione raised a brow. "Professor Snape, Sir?"

"You heard me correctly, Hermione." The Headmaster leaned forward. "I have already taken the liberty of safeguarding this room, so that no 'passerby' may listen in on our conversation." Hermione saw that he was not just talking about a spell, every portrait in his office was empty, as if the past headmasters had all taken a vacation to go visit the Fat Lady. "What I am about to tell you must be taken on faith. Out of my friends and associates, I have chosen you to tell my secrets to. . ."

"Sir?" Hermione interrupted. "What do you mean? Do you intend to tell me something I can't share even with Harry?" She blushed slightly, taken aback by her own words. "What I mean, sir, is that he is rather upset when secrets are kept from him."

"I know that, and I regret keeping such important facts from him, but there is no other choice." Dumbledore frowned at the girl, his expression somewhat sobered from what it had been moments earlier. "Don't fret about not telling him, Hermione. I already have a solution to that. No, in these short moments we have together, I must share with you that which will affect the outcome of this war."

He stood suddenly, rounding the desk as spryly as a man half his age. He stopped before Hermione's seat, leaning down. "I hope you understand the importance of this information. I know that you will take it to heart. I chose you because, of those I trust, you are the only one who will be willing to hear me out, to hear the truth."

"Headmaster!" Hermione snapped. "You're wrong, sir. There are several who would trust your every word."

"But none could execute my orders as well as you. And none would be willing to stand up for Severus Snape. This is a mission for you alone." Dumbledore grew quiet. "How do you feel about your professor, Hermione? Honestly?"

Hermione looked down at her ash sodden jeans, scrunching her nose as she tried to sort out a proper answer. "He is rather cruel, though I understand that he must keep up such an act for his role in the Order."

"Oh, no, Severus is naturally cruel—that is no act, my dear," Dumbledore stated. "But I did not ask how he behaves toward you and the other students. I asked you how you felt about him."

"I dislike him, sir," Hermione admitted. She glanced up. "But, I suppose I respect him somewhat, though I would be hard pressed to admit it to Harry or Ron. Or even to Professor Snape. He's heartless, but he seems to do what he does well, efficiently."

Dumbledore nodded. "Correct. I once knew a young man who was as clean in judgment as you. Had this moment come a few years ago, I would have asked Remus Lupin to take on this task, but, recently, he has grown somewhat cold toward Severus because of the death of Sirius and Harry's obvious dislike for the man." The Headmaster sighed. "They have their reasons. I believe, though, that you are a stubborn young woman who will stick to her feelings, no matter how naïve they may seem."

"What is it you mean for me to do exactly?" she asked.

"For now? Simply listen. But in the near future, you will be required to save a man whom you _dislike_." Dumbledore placed his hand over hers, warding off her inevitable interruptions. "I am going to die, my dear, before this school year ends."

Hermione blinked, eyes widened in surprise and something akin to fear. "But, sir. . ."

"It will happen. Now listen closely, child. We have so little time," Dumbledore began. "No doubt, Draco Malfoy has been asked to commit a villainous deed in order to save himself and his family. He accepts it, seeing it as a chance to prove himself. He is to kill me.

"He is but a boy, though, and he is no murderer for all of his vanity and bullying. Severus took a vow, an Unbreakable Vow, stating that he would commit the crime in Draco's place. He did not know that the deep he was to commit involved my death, per se. You have most likely been told that there is no way out of such a binding agreement. That is true. And though Severus has made it clear that he will not do it, I am certain, when the time comes, he will follow my orders and murder me before a group of Death Eater witnesses and Harry."

"Harry? But, why?" Hermione stood as well, stepping back. "You want Snape to kill you? You asked him to . . . in front of Harry? Sir, you can't do that—to either of them! Harry won't be able to take your death, and Snape will be hunted down. You can't leave us, sir! How can we do anything without you?"

Dumbledore pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "I must let this happen. I have my reasons, Hermione. You know, in your heart, that this is true. In time you will realize why I have made these decisions. For now, you only need know that Severus Snape will be innocent of any crime he commits."

Hermione could feel her face flush, though not with the anger that she was no doubt radiating. Tears burned her eyes, waiting to be unleashed. "But, why, sir? Must you die?"

"All will be revealed, child." Dumbledore put a hand on her shoulder. "Now, please, follow my wishes, those which I know that no other would be willing to follow. I do what I do to save our world, to give Harry what he needs to become our hero. If I do not, Voldemort may _win_. That is not what any of us want. Will you be a part of this, Hermione?"

The young witch felt wetness snaking its way between her nose and cheek. She bit her lip, looking up and nodding.

"Very good. Now sit back down." Dumbledore left her, walking back around his desk and opening a drawer. He pulled out a glass jar in which floated a tiny blue flower, as sparkling and lonely as a sapphire. "How much do you know of the forget-me-not?"

Hermione found the seat of her chair, becoming in an instant 'the-know-it-all'. "Muggles have many stories about the origin and properties of the forget-me-not flower, but wizarding history tells another variation. I believe it involves the dying tear of a powerful witch or wizard, one containing all the sorrows and memories of that person. As their soul fades, they can press the seed of pain into the earth with the words by which the flower is named. Magical forget-me-nots are rare."

"Nicely phrased. And the properties of such a rare plant?" Dumbledore asked, reaching back into his desk and retrieving a short glass and a corked vial.

Hermione watched him pour the potion out, murmuring her reply. "The forget-me-not, paired with a complex forgetfulness potion may be used to repress specific memories for a designated period of time, but only with the participation of the one who is to take the potion. Also, it can be used to reveal memories of the flower's planter."

"Correct," Dumbledore stated. He opened the jar, holding it out to Hermione. "I believe you know what to do now."

The witch reached out, picking up the delicate flower between thumb and index. With one swift movement she dropped it into the glass of potion. The elixir fizzed, hissing as it accepted the final ingredient. Hermione wrapped her fingers around the cup, lifting it.

"Is there anything else you wanted to tell me, Headmaster, before I do this?" Hermione asked, anxious eyes staring down into faded blue depths of liquid. "Anything I'm supposed to remember that you haven't told me yet?"

"I have told you all I can," the old wizard replied, his voice sad. "But when these memories return to you, I think you will find yourself with more information than you can handle. And you will be alone in it. Even Severus will not know about this meeting."

"And what am I supposed to do with that information?"

"You will know," Dumbledore said.

Hermione didn't reply, shutting her eyes and lifting the glass up toward her lips. She swallowed the liquid, wincing as the flower additive scolded her throat. When she opened her eyes again, she almost fell from the chair, dazed by its effects. Dumbledore reached across his desk, taking the glass with one hand and holding her still with the other.

"Headmaster? What am I doing here?" she asked, staring around the office.

Dumbledore smiled, his blue eyes twinkling. "You flooed her only a few minutes ago, Miss Granger, and you took a smart hit on the head. I'm afraid you were knocked unconscious. But I'm sure you'll be alright now."

"Oh. . ." Hermione blinked. "Should I go to the Hospital Wing?"

"I don't see why," he replied. "I patched you up as right as rain. Why don't you go get some fresh air? Just yesterday Hagrid was complaining about how lonely the holidays could be."

She nodded. "I should visit him."

"Wonderful idea," Dumbledore replied. He pulled a small fold of parchment from his robes. "And should you see Harry, would you mind giving him this?"

Hermione took the note, hiding it within her own pocket. "Yes, Headmaster." She smiled softly, making her way toward the door.

"Good luck, Hermione," he added as she stepped out, leaving him to his solitude.


	2. Chapter 1: Liar's Lament

**A/N: No, I didn't forget about this story. I simply needed to get caught up with some of my other works before I got too caught up in this story. Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed!**

**The beginning of this is a bit confusing—just stick with me. **

**Setting: This chapter begins during HBP, Ch 29: The Phoenix Lament. It follows Hermione as I mold the scene to fit my evil fanfic purposes. **

_**Forget-Me-Not**_

**Chapter 1: Liar's Lament**

Blood. Flesh. Scissoring crevices of skin torn open, their red seas clotting, current slowed—it was a scene that both fascinated and disturbed her. Hermione winced, realizing that she was staring at the wounded young man. With a defeated sigh, she looked away from Bill's mangled form, so very vivid against the stark white sheets. Her heart skipped a beat when she noticed a ragged Harry Potter standing only a few feet away. She crossed the distance without a second thought, wrapping her arms around her best friend.

But, still, she couldn't speak, unable to ask him the questions pulling at her mind like hooks. Instead, she lost herself in his warmth for that short moment, breathing in his comforting scent.

_A body, stiff, cold, lying at a crooked angle:_

"_Before this school year ends. . . ."_

"_He is to kill me. . . ."_

"_. . . .When the time comes. . . ."_

Hermione's breath caught in her throat as she held back a sudden sob. She shivered when Harry released her, moving to study the fallen Weasley, answering questions, asking his own. Everyone seemed to be talking, their voices blocked from her as she looked for an explanation for the words still streaming through her mind: "_I am going to die, my dear. . . ." _

Flashes of memory—a floo gone wrong, taking a seat before her headmaster—filled her head. But what had she been discussing with Dumbledore? When had this meeting taken place? _Why am I just now remembering it?_

A flower. That simple image was her answer.

The young witch's eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to speak, but Ginny's voice shook her to the core.

"Ron—Dumbledore's dead," the red-headed girl whispered, interrupting her brother.

Hermione's voice disappeared, only a muffled moan escaping her mouth. She could feel the tears rising, her face flushing. But somehow she had already known. But how? How could she have known that the headmaster was dead before Ginny had spoken? _Because he told me he would die. . . .No, that's not right. That couldn't be right. This has to be some strange dream: I'm up in my dorm right now, oversleeping, late for class, snuggled in my bed. . . ._

"Snape killed him."

NO! Hermione stopped herself from shouting the declaration, covering her mouth with both hands as Harry went on, testifying to Snape's guilt. But she wasn't listening. She couldn't. The only words she could hear were Dumbledore's, whispered to her months ago from across his desk. He told her what Snape would have to do. Kill him.

Dumbledore was dead, and Snape had done that rotten deed—but they didn't understand, did they? They didn't have the knowledge that she was privy to. . . .So they spoke their lies. . . .

No. Not lies. The truth of perception—the only truth any of them knew.

Hermione's heartbeat shook her whole body as she looked up, biting her own lip to stop herself from telling Harry about her meeting with Dumbledore.

"So if Ron was watching the Room of Requirement with Ginny and Neville." It was Harry speaking again. He looked to Hermione in inquiry. "Were you. . . .?"

"Outside Snape's office, yes," she whispered. She could feel the tears in her eyes begin to sting. The onlookers assumed they were simply for mourning, but they didn't realize how deep the hurt went with every salty drop. "With Luna," Hermione stated. _Just tell them what they need to hear._ "We hung around for ages outside it and nothing happened. . . . We didn't know what was going on upstairs, Ron had taken the map. . . . It was nearly midnight when Professor Flitwick came sprinting down into the dungeons. He was shouting about Death Eaters in the castle, I don't think he really registered that Luna and I were there at all, he just burst his way into Snape's office and we hear him saying that Snape had to go back with him and help and then we heard a loud thump and Snape came hurtling out of his room and he saw us and—and. . . ."

Hermione broke off, catching her breath as she recalled Snape's expression as he ran out of his room. He was such a bloody good liar, so straight faced and even toned. Apparently, so was she, or else Dumbledore wouldn't have given her this job.

"What?"

She frowned at the greedy look on Harry's face. He needed more fuel to hold against Snape. _How could Dumbledore ever expect this to work out for the good?_

"I was so stupid, Harry! He said Professor Flitwick had collapsed and that we should go and take care of him while he—while he went to help fight the Death Eaters."

_Oh Merlin, he knew! Snape must have known right then that he would have to murder another being before the night was up! _Hermione cried into her palms, speaking between her fingers. "We went into his office to see if we could help Professor Flitwick and found him unconscious on the floor. . . and oh, it's so obvious now, Snape must have Stupefied Flitwick, but we didn't realize, Harry, we didn't realize, we just let Snape go!" she sobbed.

And she would never have let the man go if she'd only had those memories of Dumbledore's meeting—if she'd only known the truth about the vow in time to save. . . .

Hermione backed away from the group, letting them take over, tell her everything was alright, repeating the night in words, detail by detail. She took a seat on one of the beds opposite the injured Weasley.

_Now what?_

**OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO**

Only a few hours until sunrise, Hermione made it to her bed, having slipped through the crowded common room without detection. Her dorm room was empty when she arrived, and she was admittedly happy that no one was there to ask her questions. When she'd last seen Ron, he gave her a sad smile, following her lead into his own room, no doubt to wait for Harry to return. But Hermione had no intention of waiting up for her own roommates.

The young witch quickly slipped out of her robe, pulling on a pair of sweats and her favorite, oversized sweater, the one that made her think of home. She put her wand on her bedside table, slipping under the covers. On one elbow, she reached over, pulling out her draw and rummaging with one hand until she extracted a tiny bottle.

Hermione didn't always sleep well, but usually she had the will to sit up and study throughout longer nights. However, on occasion, a bit of dreamless sleep potion would do what nature didn't. Tonight, she knew that sleep wouldn't come easy. Her mind was racing, too fast for her to catch up.

With bitter expression, she swallowed a good dose of the potion, already feeling its effects by the time her head hit the pillow. But, even as she dozed off, she realized that it wasn't working; the potion was supposed to suppress dreams, but she was already slipping into one.

**OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO**

Women dream in color more often then men, simple fact. However, most of these slumbering ladies recall vivid colors that express emotion, one or two that stick with them to the end. For that reason alone, Hermione knew that this was no ordinary nighttime fantasy. No. This was something more.

The colors were dull, realistic. A quarter moon hung in the sky, yellowed, a chill brushing through the leaves, their stirring the only sound. And there Hermione stood, staring off into her darkened surroundings.

It wasn't until she detected movement at her side that she realized that she was not alone. Her eyes widened when they reached the clump of black robes lying beside her.

Severus Snape lay on the ground, an empty vial in his palm. He moaned out, clasping his stomach with his other hand, a shallow breath whistling through his clinched teeth.

"Professor! What have you done to yourself?"

Hermione bent down on one knee, reaching out to touch the man's shoulder. She passed straight through him, nothing more than a spirit. Rolling her eyes at her own attempt, she slouched down, studying the man.

_Of course, I can't touch him! This is a dream. . . .No, a memory. The Forget-Me-Not! This is what the legends meant. But I'm seeing Snape's memory? Than he planted the flower? This doesn't make sense._

The wizard's face was twisted in pain, his brow knitted. Nevertheless, Hermione could clearly see that he was younger, his skin barely wrinkled, pale and soft. He looked to be in his mid twenties at most, but in the poor moon light, she could barely make that assumption.

"Oh, god, Lily," he hissed, eyes closed. "I should have done this ages ago. . . . before I hurt you. The world would have been a better place. . . ."

Hermione looked up, gasping at what she had failed to see earlier. A few feet before her stood two adjoined tombstones, the final resting place of the Potters. Lily and James: their graves were fresh, very from the Fall leaves and the recently turned soil.

"But what are you doing here, Professor Snape? Why are you muttering to Harry's mother. . . .?"

The man could not hear her, his only answer a sudden lurch as his body tensed, his fingers closing to crush the bottle in his hand.

"You poisoned yourself," Hermione whispered, a question in her tone. "That's how you were able to plant the Forget-Me-Not. You were dying. But you lived, somehow. . . ."

She cut off, feeling foolish for speaking aloud.

Instead she watched the wizard's body seized up, his face buried in the grass as pain ripped through his body.

"I call to you, my love," Snape moaned, pushing himself up. "I call to all that was sorrow and regret, grant me this! The price be paid with this tear and this life. So as my body lay to rot, you shall, eternally, forget-me-not."

Hermione raised a brow at the incantation, so childish for powerful magic. _Like words from a muggle fairy tale_. . . . But a tear rolled down the wizard's cheek, falling from skin to open earth. And where it fell, the ground stirred, a seedling's first green peeping out of the dirt, rising up until tiny petals unfolded in bright, indigo strips. . . .

**End Notes: Ok, first off, yes this story will consist of a lot of memories and flash backs into Snape's past. But a poll to the reader: do you think I should switch to Snape's POV (what he's doing at the end of HBP) or stick with Hermione's throughout the story? It's rather important to what I do in the next chapter.**

**Well, tell me what you think! **


	3. Chapter 2: Telling of the Tide

_**Forget-Me-Not**_

**Chapter 2: Telling of the Tide**

The days had passed: The funeral. A promise to her friends. Home again, and waiting for whatever would come next. There had not been another dream during this time.

The knowledge was there, but nothing new had arisen, no news on Snape "the murderer", no memories, no action from the Order. And Hermione didn't have a clue as to what to do with the information she already had; Dumbledore had told her that she would know what to do with this knowledge, but perhaps he had been wrong. The young witch thought that surely he must have been, for what could she possibly do with it without telling someone his secrets? It was madness.

For the past three hours, Hermione hadn't moved from her cushioned seat against her bedroom window. She had simply sat, staring out at her parents' fenced back yard. She had been attempting to sort through her thoughts, think of any possible reason why Dumbledore would not have told her what to do next. That was when she heard _them_.

There were two of them, voices trapped in some far away place. This was not a dream, but it felt the same as that telling vision she'd had of Snape's attempted suicide. It left her a statue, enclosed within her own curiosity, and with a certain feeling of dread and recognition that would be hard to duplicate. Her eyes were still staring down at the spring-touched earth, but her vision was clouded with a tint of blue that didn't quite match the cloud-scattered sky above the house.

"_You have done well, Severus."_

A person would not need to have heard this voice before to recognize the owner. It was not a hissing, but it carried a certain reptilian feel to it—the coldness of a snake, of temptation slithering around a body. And the voice said her professor's name as if it owned the wizard: it was most definitely Lord Voldemort. Hermione suddenly had no doubt of this—her blood pounded through her ears at the recognition, almost muting the conversation.

"_To please you, my lord."_

"_It does indeed please me. Such information could afford you a much greater reward than a woman's life." _

"_Let her be a witness to those who would question you, my lord."_

"_Ah, you still think of me, Severus? But this is your reward—do you not wish to keep it for yourself, for your own. . . uses? It could be arranged."_

A moment of silence passed, and Hermione thought that the memory had ended, but Snape's voice quickly returned.

"_I have no need for a whore, my lord." _

A snake's laugh followed. Hermione had never heard such a noise before, and she had never wanted to.

"_Amusing, Severus._ _That does beg the question as to why you would bother asking me to spare Potter's wife. . . Oh, but don't answer, servant—it is well. I will take the child but not your "whore". It is not as if she warrants my special . . . attention." _

"_My lord is just."_

"_Indeed, Severus. Indeed." _

Hermione slipped off of the pillowed seat, landing elbows-first onto the floor. She winced at the throb but was too full of thoughts to dwell on it.

"Whore." Hermione spat out the word like it was rotten meat. The taste of it remained in her mouth.

They had been talking about Harry's mother, she realized. _Potter's wife_. . . . But she had known before that. She had known instinctively, as soon as the first words had left Voldemort's mouth. She had been aware of all things, of those present, of the context, of the emotion behind the words—but it was only Snape she felt through. And it was such a cold feeling, being part of him. What had made that man so numb toward the world around him? What did it have to do with Lily Potter?

"He was asking for her life?" _And we can all see how that worked out for her_, Hermione mused with a frown.

Hermione pulled herself up off of the floor, slowly walking to her cluttered desk. She plopped into the chair with all the grace of a certain half-giant and glared at a blank scrap of parchment with an itching finger. She _could_ write Harry about this, attempt to stifle her curiousity. But what would she ask him? She didn't have any questions that he could possibly answer, and she couldn't tell him about the memories—she had made a promised. . . . Still, perhaps she would work around it. After all, Remus might know something about. . . .

"He might have just wanted to save an innocent woman's life. Is that too far of a stretch?"

Hermione snorted at her interruption. She was talking to herself now. Oh, that was just lovely.

She leaned back, processing her own question.

"Yes, because a bastard who calls a woman a whore is just a soft-hearted fool, waiting for a chance to spread his good intentions around, I'm sure."

A soft knocking sounded from outide the bedroom door.

"'Mione, dear," called her mother's even voice.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Mum?"

The door opened slowly, the muggle woman outside peeking around the side like a mouse out of its hole. "I thought I heard someone speaking," she began. "I could have sworn I heard a bang, and I though one of your little friends must have, you know, apparated in . . . ."

Hermione cut her off. "It was just me, Mum."

"Oh." Her mother was quiet, a small smile at her lips and a wrinkle at her forehead. She was begging her daughter to continue. "Well, I'll just be downstairs then. I was thinking of baking some biscuits—would you like to give me a hand?"

"Actually, I was just beginning some. . . ." Hermione gestured to a stack of open books on her desk.

A curt nod was her mother's only reply. She covered her disappointment by closing the door behind her.

Hermione rested her head on one hand. Her mother was never one to pry and would certainly never ask her daughter why she stayed shut-up in her bedroom all day.

Granted, Hermione had only told her parents a portion of what had happened throughout the school year—that was one of the advantages of coming from a muggle family. Her mum and dad knew that her headmaster had been killed; they'd received that much information in a letter from the school announcing that the term would be ending a bit early. Hermione had not given them any further details, simply rattling off a few comments about her course work and the upcoming Weasley wedding.

They didn't need to know anything else.

Hermione wondered when she had begun distancing herself from her parents. It was natural, she guessed, for a teenage girl to grow apart from her parents, especially her mother, but she had once been so full of thoughts—so many summers she had returned almost bursting with energy, ready to reel her parents with giddy details about her magical life or rant about what had happened throughout the year. She had stopped telling her stories around the summer after her fourth year, though. For Hermione, death didn't inspire the rabid talkativeness that the young witch usually supplied in earnest.

This summer, she had given them even less information about the school year. Knowing how dangerous her life sometimes was would only worry them. And if she talked to them, they'd ask her about next fall. She wasn't ready for that. She wasn't ready to lie and talk about returning to school. She wasn't ready to tell them that she was planning to run away from them, to search, to fight, maybe to. . . .

Hermione pinched her nose, fooling herself into thinking that her wet eyes were a result of hay fever.

She reached out and tucked the parchment into a book, using it as a place mark. She made her way to her bed, flopping down onto her back, her head barely on her overstuffed pillow, still new from last summer. She wasn't writing anyone today. She just wasn't in the mood, and she'd hear from them soon enough anyhow.

Hermione rested a hand on her stomach, staring up at the bare ceiling above. It represented the room as a whole. It was charming enough, still wearing the pale lavender paint she'd helped her father apply when she was just a child. Most of the new things in the room were books and pictures of her friends. Her older self had left almost no impact on this house. She guessed that that was what happened when one didn't come back to visit but for a few weeks through the summer and a winter holiday here or there.

And she wouldn't be here that long this summer either.

Harry would be ready to leave soon, to go on his search for the horcruxes, and she wondered if she would still be waiting when her boys came. Maybe she would be gone already. Or maybe she'd just be asleep.

Maybe she'd be dreaming of a plan.

Hermione liked to plan things. She very much liked to have things done ahead of time—that was what made her excellent student, a valuable friend. Perhaps that's why she was truly scared on this lovely, innocent, boring day. She couldn't plan ahead anymore. She didn't know what the hell she could be researching—she'd went over every text she had available in an attempt to find something for Harry's quest days ago. What book would help her learn more about Snape? No. Hermione had nothing to do but wait until something or someone gave her a direction to go.

And Hermione did not like waiting.

**End Note: The next chapter is more insightful. Any questions about a vision/memory will be answered in a later vision memory--just thought I'd throw that out there for the curious. **


	4. Chapter 3: Perfect Ignorance

**A/N: You're probably wondering why I didn't update this story for nearly two years. Well, aside from the general "life" happenings, I was sort of put off when I read **_**Deathly Hallows**_**. I really enjoyed the seventh book, but when it came out, I realized that the story of Snape was almost a duplicate to the Lily/Snape implications I was going to put into this story. So I figured I'd give up on it. Then a friend said "how exactly is that a **_**problem**_**??" So, here I am, returning to the story. Thanks for reading! **

**Setting: I'm going to follow most of the plot of **_**Deathly Hallows **_**from this point out, but the chapters will be spaced so that you don't see many of those events in the book (quite a bit of the story is in memory form). I don't promise to stick exactly to HPatDH, though, so prepare yourself for AU moments. **

_**Forget-Me-Not**_

**Chapter 3: Perfect Ignorance **

The wait was over. The day had come for the plan to go into action, one small step at a time.

"Dear, I don't know about this," Mrs. Granger said, her worried eyes refusing to meet her daughter. She stared, instead, at the carrot she was chopping and bit her bottom lip with perfectly straight teeth.

"But I always go to the Weasleys, Mum. And to Hogwarts, of course," Hermione answered, a small smile on her face. "This trip isn't any different."

Her mother blinked, as if thrown off by the softness of the plea. She knew her daughter well, and Hermione was almost never soft when denied something she cared about. With a tilt of her head, Mrs. Granger studied the young woman.

"Is it safe?" she finally asked, knowing that her husband had already received an answer to the same question.

Hermione nodded, the serene grin remaining.

"I don't believe you," her mother said. There was no mutter, no stutter, no hesitation. And, though she was calling her daughter on a lie, the woman didn't receive more than a bat of thick eyelashes for her confrontational tone. Something was wrong. "Is everything alright with you, dear?"

"Can we talk about this in the morning?" Hermione asked. Her face was drawn, her gaze tired, and the enthusiasm pushed into her voice would have sound forced even to a stranger's ears. "Can't we just go settle in front of the telly for a bit? Dad's already beat us to the remote."

"I'm making tomorrow's lunch," her mother answered, smiling slightly.

"The salad can wait."

Hermione's lip twitched. The sentence hadn't been the one floating through her mind: _tomorrow isn't going to happen. _That wasn't quite correct either. Tomorrow would happen, but not the way the Grangers were planning it to. They'd never drop off their daughter and return to work for a four o'clock appointment. Instead, they would board a plane to Australia and never remember their old plans or their old lunches. Or their old daughter.

The witch swallowed hard. "Please," she insisted.

"I didn't realize you were looking forward to an old episode of _Dr. Who _this much."

Hermione raised a brow. "It's not as if I can watch it when I return to Ron and Ginny's," she laughed. "Though, I think Mr. Weasley would find it right amusing."

Mrs. Granger scooted the vegetables into a pile. "I suppose I can save this for the commercial break," she submitted. She circled the counter and wrapped her arm around her daughter's shoulders, leading her towards the main room.

Hermione settled into the sofa beside her father, who was gently snoring to the sound of an antiques' show though the evening was still young. She stole the remote from his loose fingers, resting her head against his shoulder. The channel quickly changed, she propped her legs over her mother's thighs and squeezed the older woman's orange-stained fingers with one hand.

Her mother smiled at her before looking back to the screen. "I'm glad you still enjoy spending time with us oldies every once in a while," she chirped during the familiar theme song. "You've been growing up so quickly lately."

Hermione stared at her. The heat in the witch's eyes was unbearable but she couldn't look away. A part of her was angry that she was delaying the inevitable for so many more hours. Angry that she'd left her wand upstairs on purpose. Angry that she even thought that this solution was a solution.

"I wish I wasn't," she finally answered. "I wish we had more nights like this."

"We do, dear," her mother replied. But she was no longer paying attention, enraptured by the television again.

Hermione stared at the television and thought it was unfair that she wasn't simply an actor pretending to fight evil. Actually being one of the good guys, making the awful decisions necessary to protect loved ones, that was fair too complicated for her liking. She wanted to be somewhere else, space maybe, where those decisions weren't hers to make.

The sounds around her seemed to lull her eyes closed, and she found herself slipping back against the cushions. Fighting the sleep would have been easy, but she didn't want to. Let the hours until morning pass quickly, she decided, her last rational thought before she drifted away.

**o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o**

Her eyes were not her own.

Hermione wanted to close them, but couldn't. She panicked, but didn't feel her heartbeat quicken. It took her another moment to realize that she was in no danger. It was her dream, someone else's memory. And the hand holding tightly to her sleeve was actually holding to his, all those years ago.

"Sev, you've got to stop this," the woman said. Her voice was low, but strained, the backdrop of books framing her body no doubt the reason for the whisper.

Hermione took in the details in a quick rush as the eyes, Snape's eyes, quickly lifted to look away from the woman holding so tightly to his arm. The books were tagged. A store, not a library. The air was musty, appropriate, and his throat was so dry that it ached. Hermione didn't like this view. She didn't like seeing the memories this way. She preferred the other, being a simple onlooker; it had been more like watching a television show the first time.

The witch felt herself wince in her sleep. That had been the reason, she was almost sure. That was the reason she was in his eyes. She'd been thinking so hard on what it meant to not been real, to be a character in a show, watched by an audience. And this was where her imagination had made contact with Snape's memories.

There was a tightness in the man's chest. It was painful. It crawled up him, down him. It made his eyes burn and his stomach quake. Hermione couldn't take the uncomfortable sensation. She wanted out.

She blinked. When her eyes opened, she was still in the dream, but she was now staring at Severus Snape's profile, the curtain of stringy black hair over his gaunt cheeks, the unmistakable slope of a nose he had no doubt sported since birth. He was younger, as he had been in the other dream, and she had the distinct feeling that this moment was before the last, as if the memories, from his suicide to his conversation with Voldemort to this bookstore, that his chain of memories was moving in reverse.

Hermione watched as if she were another shopper, curious to hear what was said, but before she could contemplate the man's pained, angry expression, she finally caught a decent look at the woman standing directly in front of him. Her red hair was splayed over her shoulders, hiding most of her face, but Hermione knew her almost at once from Harry's photos.

Lily Potter. Lily Potter holding tightly to Severus Snape's sleeve, not allowing the man to fully turn away from her. Her pregnant belly, swollen and hanging low, almost touching his side.

"Harry?" Hermione said, unable to stop the tiny smile on her face as she stared at that bump, covered by a strained brown robe.

Her attention was torn from her unborn best friend when Lily pushed herself closer to Severus, as if to make him look at her.

"You must stop. There's no 'us'. And there never really was," Lily insisted, her brow wrinkled in pity. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry you're still. . . But it's not my fault that you haven't learned to move on."

"Who's to say I haven't?" Severus snapped.

Lily let go of him as if she had been stung and quickly slapped his forearm. "That," she hissed, "doesn't count."

His black eyes widened in shock, and he folded his arms against his chest, as if to hide the offending arm.

Hermione understood why almost at once. The mark. That's where it was. She shook her head, somewhat surprised at his expression. She'd expected denial. After all, the man could hide his true intent from anyone.

"Perhaps a skill you learned later in life?" Hermione reasoned.

"You know?" Severus breathed, staring down into Lily's eyes as if he were watching his own death. In a second's time, his eyes narrowed, his face stiffening into a blank slate as if he'd washed the emotion away. He snorted. "I don't know what you're referring to, but I was discussing your willingness to settle for that bastard Potter. Personally, I don't believe that's anyone's definition of _moving on_."

Lily shook her head, suddenly looking exhausted. She held her stomach with one curved arm, as if afraid it might drop off. "Fine. Play your games, Sev. But I won't be there to help you again."

"Promise?" he sneered.

"I have a family," she said. As if she'd heard her name, she turned, looking back at the stack of books behind her. She took one step away and then turned to Snape again. "I can't," she said, her voice near a sob. She wiped at her mouth with one hand, as if she could brush away the words flowing out. "I can't watch my friend become this. I just can't. Don't look for me again, Severus. I mean it. I won't be there."

Her footsteps were quiet as she stepped over the open, ancient tome on the ground. It had been marked with a slip of parchment, as if someone had studying the text.

"Lily," Severus said. He glanced from side to side, as if afraid the name would be heard. His disregarding eyes swept right through Hermione.

Lily stopped at the end of the aisle but did not look back.

"I thought it was what was best for you," he said.

"I can't even begin to understand that," she bit, anger rising in her ruddy cheeks. Her fists curled against her robe pockets, as if aching for her wand. She took a breath and blinked the heat away. "We'll be fine. We'll be safe."

His eyes became ice. "I don't care about your _family_, Lily. Just you," he replied.

She smiled, though he couldn't see the expression. "Liar." Her hand crawled up her belly. "This child, he's as much me as he is James. And you can't hate any part of me, Sev. No matter how hard you try."

Severus did not thaw. "But I can hate every part of James Potter."

"True," Lily whispered and walked away.

Hermione watched as the woman faded, and the books dripped away into grains of color. The dream, the memory was dissolving away around her. Her last image was of Severus Snape watching his scuffed shoes with a look of forced contempt.

"You cared about her?" Hermione asked. It didn't make sense. It didn't fit. She refused to think on it, not until she knew more. A part of her wished another memory would begin to play so that she could confirm something, anything, but it did not.

**O0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o**

She could recognize the scent of her mother's favorite laundry soap before she even realized that she was awake. Pulling her face away from the textured surface of the cushion, she blinked, staring at her father's shoulder and remembering that she was supposed to be awake, supposed to be enjoying what could be the last normal evening she'd have with her parents.

The television had been turned off, a blue fleece throw spread over her short-clad legs. Her mother must have gone to bed and left the other two Grangers where they'd fallen. Hermione stood, and turned back to her father. The motion hadn't woken the man. She left him there and took her stairs, two at a time, reaching her bedroom in seconds. It didn't look the same. It hadn't changed in nearly a decade and now it was suddenly white walled and barren, her things transformed and put in boxes to be restored later. Only the items coming with her were left out.

Her wand was under her pillow, waiting for her. It felt cold in her hand. A small folder was sitting beneath it. It contained new papers for her parents. The names read Wendell and Monica Wilkins.

It wasn't tomorrow yet. The clock had not even struck midnight, but she couldn't wait any longer, and she refused to ask for help in the execution of her plan. No one else could take her parents' will, could meddle with their minds. No one but her. She took a breath.

Some things could not be put off for another day.


End file.
